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by KaisaSegher



Series: Counting Scars [6]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, Eventual Smut, F/M, Family, Fluff, Implied Past Abuse, Married Life, OC, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-21
Updated: 2017-05-25
Packaged: 2018-10-09 01:24:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 21,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10400601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KaisaSegher/pseuds/KaisaSegher
Summary: Sansa was not sure what life Arya had led after fleeing from King’s Landing. And even though her sister was sitting in front of her, safe and sound enough, Sansa knew better than she wished to that it mean nothing. Leather vests could hide scars under them just as much as silk sleeves could. And there were things, the most twisted of them all, that could be hidden under the skin, and the ribs, and the skull itself.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm back! I'm sorry for the hiatus but I'm working on my graduation essay and I'm so so so tired of writing it that when I have some spare time I don't feel like writing at all but then I started to miss this and this story happened. So here you go, hope you enjoy!

Her hair was somewhat shorter than what Sansa recalled. But what did she remember of her sister, after all? A little girl, skinny, with a long face that somehow was rounder than the one she was looking at right now. Although most of her face had been a blur throughout all these years, just like her lord father’s and her lady mother’s. Even Robb’s. Sansa had wondered from time to time, if she would recognize Arya or Bran if she ever passed by them.

Now she was certain she probably would have not.

The girl swallowing huge bites of a lamb’s leg, chewing with her mouth wide open in front of her could not be anyone but her sister. But if no one had told her that this lean, high cheeked girl was Arya Stark Sansa would have probably just mistaken her for another northern girl.

That made her sad to her bones, that she could not even recognise her own siblings.

“So you married your own brother,” Arya spat, her grey eyes, just like Jon’s, fixed on her food. “How very Targaryen, I suppose. Although for what I’ve been told that is also something the Lannisters do.”

“Jon is not my brother,” Sansa said, keeping her voice as calm as she could, her hand over her belly. She thanked the gods that her husband had been sensible enough to leave them alone so they could talk in peace.

Though somehow Sansa was certain peace was something she would not have while speaking to her sister, as Arya lifted her head, her brows knitted together. Sansa could swear her sister’s eyes shot daggers at her.

“Of course, your half-brother, as you insisted on calling him,” Arya corrected, shrugging. “Well, he’s still my brother, and I suppose you are my sister, so what you’ve done is just disgusting.”

Sansa sighed. When did she hope that this would be easy? That her little sister would just be more than glad to jump into her arms and hold her tight, just as she had done with Jon? Apparently, they were no better at speaking to each other now than they had been almost a dozen years ago.

“It is not like that, Arya,” she tried, reaching for her sister’s hand. Arya curled her lip, but did not move away. “You do not know what happened-“

“I have an idea, believe me. And I added some names to this list I have, just to realise that you had already taken care of them,” Arya interrupted, taking another bite of her lamb. “We don’t have to speak about it, I’m sure that must not be too pleasant for you.”

Sansa caressed Arya’s hand as tears filled her eyes. She was so grateful, so grateful to have her sister again by her side!

“It was not. But Jon… Jon is such a good man!” Sansa answered, a smile playing on her lips.

“I know. You were the one too dense to see that!” her sister scolded, pressing her lips together.

“I know now,” Sansa cut, a sting of embarrassment pinching her heart. “Well, I promise it was all after I knew he was not our brother, or half-brother, or anything like that!”

Arya finally laid her lamb leg to rest, leaning back on the chair and crossing her arms. She looked so much older now, older than her years at least. There was something in her eyes - perhaps the loss of the spark they always had when she was a child - that showed that the little girl running under everyone’s feet was gone.

Sansa was not sure what life Arya had led after fleeing from King’s Landing. And even though her sister was sitting in front of her, safe and sound enough, Sansa knew better than she wished to that it meant nothing. Leather vests could hide scars under them just as much as silk sleeves could. And there were things, the most twisted of them all, that could be hidden under the skin, and the ribs, and the skull itself.

“Just so you know,” Arya tried again, looking at the ceiling. “I just want you both to be happy, even though it makes me nauseous. But I’ve seen worse things, and I’m sure you had your share too. So you and Jon together is not that bad.”

Sansa resisted the urge to circle the table and just hold her so tight Arya’s eyeballs might pop out of their orbits. But she was trying not to push her sister. They had never seen eye to eye before, and Sansa was sure Arya blamed her for their lord father’s death.

It was awful, really, being so careful around her sister, just as much as she had to around the queen herself. But perhaps it was not too late yet. It had not been for Jon, why would Arya be any different?

“He told me I had a nephew now. That makes me sick too,” Arya said, recovering the lamb and starting to chew it again.

“And why is that? He is the sweetest boy-“

“Oh, I’m sure he’s perfect!” Arya interrupted, waving the lamb leg in the air. “But that means you two- Anyway, I don’t think I’m ready to think about it just yet.”

Sansa lifted her eyebrows with such vigour she thought she might lose them amongst her hair. Could her sister, a woman grown, a formidable assassin judging by the stories she told, be that childish?

“Well, in case you could not tell it is not like I am just fat!” Sansa screeched, pointing at her round belly. “And you do not have to think about it. I would rather you would not, actually. You just have to accept it.”

Arya shrugged, as if she had decided that matter was not important after all.

“It’s not like I have a choice, have I?” she said. “And besides, you seem happy enough, Jon seems happy enough, and I think that would have to be good enough for me too, right?”

Sansa let her sister finish her food in silence, fidgeting with the sleeves of her dress.

She had expected it somehow. She knew Arya and Jon were close as children, closer than Sansa herself to any of them. Of course it would be strange for her sister, if not a shock. As a girl, Sansa had always rambled about smooth-faced knights with fair skin and fair hair. Jon could not be further apart from those dreams, and yet he was better than any man young Sansa could have made up in her head.

Now she just hoped that somehow her sister could forgive her for what she had done as a girl and let them all live peacefully together under the same roof.


	2. Chapter 2

Sansa threw the ball at Robb for what felt like the millionth time. She would never stop wondering how could he not grow tired of doing the same thing again and again and again.

At least the clouds had parted for the morning and the sun was shining, the snow so bright she had to squint if she wished to see anything. Her lady mother would have advised against having her son out in the cold, playing in the snow. But, as Sansa had grown to learn, her mother was not from the North, not like Jon, Sansa or little Robb. They were Starks, and winter was there. Also, Robb had more layers of clothes on top of his small body than most children had on their trunks, even though he had shrieked and complained when Jon had screwed the woollen cap on his son’s head.

“Again, mommy!” Robb squealed, clapping his hands together as soon as she caught the ball. Three of the small wolves remained sited in front of her, watching Sansa’s hand intently and shaking their tails. The other two were biting each other’s ears a couple of feet away and Lemon and Ghost looked like they could not care less.

“Why do you not play with Rodrik a bit?” Sansa suggested, looking at Alys, set next to the door with her son on her lap.

“He’s too small,” Robb pouted, crossing his arms at his chest. A very Stark gesture, indeed.

“And you think your little brother or your little sister will be bigger than him?” Sansa asked, throwing the ball at her son again.

Alys put Rodrik on the floor, the little boy trying as best as he could to put one foot in front of the other. Sansa decided to leave Robb with his thoughts, his toys and his wolves, and sat next to the other woman.

“We need more girls around here,” she sighed, scrubbing her hands together to push away some of the cold.

“You have your sister now, m’lady,” Alys pointed out. “I don’t think she’s going anywhere for the moment.”

Sansa cast a look at her sister just in time to watch her duck and then twist her body like an eel so she was now behind Jon, his sword arm firmly pressed to his back as Arya’s blade stopped a few inches from his neck.

At least now her husband had some competition.

That was something to feel glad for, was it not?

“I hope not,” Sansa whispered, digging her hands on her lower back and arching herself. “Gods, it hurts so much!”

“You should take some rest, m’lady. You’ve been exhausting yourself this days,” Alys said, clutching Sansa’s hand.

Alys was right. But Arya had just come back and Sansa did not wish to be the fat, frail, indolent sister. Not when Arya fought, and run, and jested all day long, certainly wining the hearts of everyone around.

So that was what it had been like for her sister, growing up with alongside what Sansa believed everybody thought was the epitome of a lord’s daughter. That certainly had not worked well for Sansa. And Arya seemed to have been safe enough this years. Safer than her, at least. After all, being a lovely girl, a good girl, a quiet girl was not the best way to play the game.

“Robb!” Sansa shouted, her thoughts interrupted as her soon tried to bite the white wolf’s ear. “Sweetie, no!”

She got up, but her belly made her slower than she used to be, and Jon reached their son first, grabbing him by his armpits and sitting him on his shoulders. Robb’s laughter echoed through the courtyard.

“Now, now, master Robb,” Jon scolded, although his wide smile gave him away. “Do you think that is the right way to treat a poor wolf?”

“He took my ball!” Robb argued, his hands clamped around Jon’s neck.

Arya made some weird noise between a laugh and a snort, covering her mouth with her hand.

“That is no excuse!” Sansa reproached, pointing her index finger at her son.

“He reminds me so much of you,” Jon said, turning around and looking at Arya.

Sansa’s heart stopped.

There was nothing wrong with it. Arya was Robb’s aunt, just as Lyanna was Arya’s aunt and everybody always said how much her sister reminded themselves of their aunt. Nephews and nieces could look like their aunts. Even Jon resembled more his uncle than his own father, of that Sansa was certain. There was absolutely nothing wrong with Jon’s remark.

But there was. Even though she had tried to dismiss that thought time after time over those last few weeks, it was still there, tangled and twisted around her heart, clamping like a cold fist.

* * *

She had better things to do. She had letters to answer, accounts to check, letters to send. The queen had asked about Sansa’s health and wished her the best, but she also wanted to know if it would be possible to lodge a garrison of five hundred men at Last Hearth. Sansa had not quite found the words to tell her that the town’s population was not even half of that number and that the southern soldiers would certainly die sleeping on the snow.

“Oh, you are here,” Jon said, as he opened the door of the study, lifting his eyebrows. “I thought you were sleeping.”

“It is too soon to be in bed already, will you not agree?” she asked, without lifting her eyes from the papers in her desk, her tone harsher than she had intended.

“Well, I just thought-“ Jon started, running his hand through his hair. “That you were resting. I left Robb with Jocelyn for a while, I think she his telling him about Bran the Builder.”

“Not again,” Sansa whispered, rolling her eyes.

“What? It is just a story!” Jon said, shrugging.

“I do not like it when people fill my son’s head with stories about Kings in the North and those sorts of things.” There it was, the harsh tone again.

Jon took the chair in front of her, reaching for his wife’s hand. His was so warm, so tender, as his fingers intertwined with hers.

“Is everything alright, love?” he asked, his voice soft.

He had learnt his lesson. Over their few years together he somehow, even dense as he was sometimes, had learnt that it was easier to reach her if he did not raise his voice. Loud voices reminded her too much of another time, and that made her close inside herself.

“Do you think-“ she tried. It was stupid. It was so stupid she was even ashamed to ask it. She knew. He had told her already, not as often as he did in the start, but he told her often enough. And she knew.

“Sansa, please, what is wrong?” Jon insisted, his fingers gently caressing hers. “Are you scared because of the baby again? Because everything went perfectly with Robb, and we have no reason to think otherwise.”

Her heart almost broke. How could she even think about that sort of thing, let alone let it eat her like that, and even affect what she had with Jon. What they had achieved, after so much work. Sansa still had the image of Robb on Jon’s shoulders, laughing, carved on her head and she was sure she would carry it with her no matter how many years she still had to live.

“If it had not been me, at Castle Black. If it had not been me the one who stayed behind in King’s Landing.” She forced the words from her mouth. She owed Jon that much honesty, even though he got angry at her afterwards. “If it had been Arya, not me. Do you think-“

“Do I think what, Sansa?” Jon asked, his voice low and demanding, the same he used when he spoke to his men. Her men.

“That you would have chosen her instead?”

She closed her eyes, as if she had been sentenced to death and was waiting for the blow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Btw, so sorry about the spelling/grammar mistakes, I'll try to check them as soon as I can.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All aboard the angsty-train!

Sansa counted her heartbeats, too fast and too strong inside her head. Her mouth was dry and something as heavy as an iron block had settled on her chest, making it impossible for her to breathe.

Perhaps she was still a stupid girl.

But she needed him to say no. She needed Jon to tell her it was all inside her head, that it was a foolish thing to ask, that he only loved Sansa and Sansa alone.

“That does not make any sense, Sansa,” he whispered instead, and when she opened her eyes he was staring at the ceiling and shaking his head.

“Why not? You have always loved her, and you were close as children,” Sansa insisted, trying to sound as careless as she could, like she was just stating that the sun rose in the east.

Jon still was not looking at her.

“We can never know, can we? That is the thing about the past, it cannot be changed,” Jon said, shrugging.

Her heart was hammering her ribs now, as beads of sweat gathered on her forehead and the small of her back. Sansa’s fingers gripped the arms of her chair as she felt first her head and then the walls around her spin.

“So you would, then?” she tried again, her voice starting to fail her.

Jon huffed, running a hand through his hair yet again.

“I did not say that. Just-“ He huffed again, getting up from his chair. “Just leave it. Gods, I love you, I am not going to leave you! I’ve said it a thousand times. What else do you want me to say?”

Why did she always ruin everything? They were happy, were they not? They had a beautiful, healthy son, they had the North’s loyalty and the queen’s favour, and they had peace, at least for now. Why did she want to destroy it so much? Why did she always felt the need to anger Jon, in some way? To throw her doubts, her fears at him, over and over again? Oh, gods, what if he grew tired of his neurotic little wife? Because one day, if she kept going like this, he would. Jon might be the best man she knew, but no man had that kind of patience in him.

“I just wanted you to say no,” she whispered, a tear running down her cheek as she looked down at her lap, her fingers fidgeting with a loose thread on her skirt.

“That would be a lie,” Jon spat, and now his voice had broken, too. “Would you rather I’d lied to you? I thought you wanted me to be honest with you, but I see that it only applies when you like what you hear.”

“Enough!” Sansa shouted, getting up as if somebody had pinched her bottom. “Go away, Jon! Leave me alone!”

“Well, I cannot tell you I would not have chosen her, Sansa! I can’t!” Jon roared, his eyes red and full of rage, completely ignoring her. “Because I never asked myself that question! While you keep your head filled with… With… With made-up conspiracies I never, not even once ever since the day you threw that cloth at my face and reprimanded me for sparing every day, have doubted that I wanted to be by your side more than anything on this earth.”

“You fill your own thick skull with conspiracies of your own, dear!” she mocked, tears now running freely down her cheeks. “Now get out!”

Jon did not move. They looked at each other, her chest heaving, her heart rumbling in her chest. Jon’s dark brows knitted together, his eyes narrow, a million wrinkles deforming his face.

She hated him! How she hated him, so perfect, so right, so flawless, while she was the mad one. Perhaps she had inherited something from Aunt Lysa too. Perhaps Sansa would have the same end as she. But perhaps that Jon was nothing like Littlefinger was what angered her the most. There was nothing foul about Jon. He had nothing but a kind heart. And yet, sometimes he was just so daft that it hurt her just the same, and she could not even place the blame on him. So Sansa hated him, and she wanted to hate him in peace right now.   

She grabbed him by the shoulders and pushed him to the door. He did not offer any resistance.

“I told you to go away! Get out!” she commanded, reaching for the knob.

“Sansa,” he pleaded, and she could swear his eyes were filled with tears too. But she could feel nothing but wrath, so she ignored him.

“I am Sansa Stark of Winterfell, and I am demanding that you leave me alone!” she snarled, slamming the door behind him.

* * *

She was not sure for how long had she cried. Her eyes felt dry, by now, her cheeks scorching and her head aching like someone had slammed a rock on her skull. Perhaps she deserved it, if someone truly smashed her head.

Sansa clutched her belly, chanting how sorry she was again and again, her voice so cracked it sounded foreign even to her own ears. All the while screaming at Jon, she had not thought of her baby, not even for a heartbeat. The most precious things she had in her life, her children, and she had forgotten the one who needed her the most for a stupid whim of hers. But then she had felt the child move inside of her and somehow that lifted part of the guilt she felt.

Sansa cleaned her eyes with the sleeve of her shift, hiding herself further under the blankets. It was too early to be in bed, and she knew it. Robb might need her, but right now she did not feel like the best mother in the world, after crying and shoving her husband away like a mad woman. She just needed to hide in her bed and pretend nothing else existed, not until the next day, at least. Jon could keep her sister company at dinner, and Jon could take care of his own son.

The door screeched, as a thin strap of orange light stretched on the floor. She closed her eyes, hearing the muffled footsteps, as if someone was walking barefoot. Then the door screeched again and all went dark, just as before.

“Sansa,” she heard him whisper, as she felt the weight on the mattress change behind her back.

She did not answer him, pretending she was already asleep. She still did not wish to speak to him. Jon might not have an ounce of evilness in him, but he certainly had to learn what hurt her and not to do it anymore.

Jon did not insist, and she knew he had truly given up when she felt the cool night air on her back as he lifted the blankets to lie himself down, his back to her. Good. Perhaps he would fall asleep soon enough and leave her alone after all.

A sharp inhale.

The blankets trembling softy on her shoulders.

Another sharp inhale.

Sansa rolled to her back and opened her eyes, trying to adapt to the soft glow from the hearth. She looked at what might be Jon’s body, lying beside her, and she knew something was wrong with him. He looked like he was trying to shrink inside himself, his dark hair just peaking below the blankets, his knees probably to his chest as she could not see the shape of his legs. He shivered again, and now she was sure it was a sob.

Gods, what had she done?


	4. Chapter 4

“Jon,” she called him, reaching for his shoulder. “Jon, dear. Please.”

Nothing.

Sansa snaked her arm around his waist, pulling him against her chest. It was awkward, her swollen belly getting in the way, but she did not linger on that particular thought. She rested her chin on his shoulder, trying to look at his face, but he kept it hidden under what by now might as well be his favourite piece of armour. Her hand followed the path of his elbow and forearm until she reached his hand, closed in a tight fist in front of his mouth.

Another sob. Then another and another, until she had her husband, Jon, the man she thought was the strongest of them all, even than the Hound or the Mountain, was convulsing in her arms. And it was all because of her.

Her heart sank like a stone, her throat closed by some sort of chain probably sharper than valyrian steel. Sansa did not want that power. The only times she had seen him cry, and it had been nothing like this, were when she had run to hug him after the battle for Winterfell and when he had first held Robb in his arms. Jon never cried, not even as a boy. Sure, he sort of shut himself inside his own mind when something was troubling him, but he never cried.

He wrapped his fingers around her hand and brought it to his mouth, franticly planting wet kisses on her fingers. And now she was crying too.

“I’m so sorry, Sansa,” he whispered, his words truncated by his sniffs. “You are… I am… I am a fool, I know. I’ve always been just a fool.”

She bit her lip, preventing herself from agreeing with him right away.

“And I behaved like a monster, I-”

“You are not a monster, Jon,” she cut him.

He rolled over, hiding his face on Sansa’s neck this time like he truly did not wish her to see him. Like his tears made him weaker. How hypocritical of him, after all the times he had told her she could cry in front of him. He had coaxed her into taking off her guards and once again he let his up with her.

“You are carrying a child, Sansa,” he murmured, and somehow the sobs were bothering him less. “My child, and I screamed at you, no matter what for, and that was wrong.”

“It was.” This time she could not keep herself from agreeing with him.

“I’m sorry, so sorry…” Jon sighed, his strong arms circling her waist, or about where it used to be. She had felt so safe like this before Arya came and changed everything. Why did she no longer feel it anymore? What exactly had changed, after everything they had been through, together, side by side?

“Jon, what you said- it hurt me so much,” she whispered, stroking his hair.

No. Sansa would stick her foot. She would stand her ground. He had to understand what he had done.

“I know, love, I know, and I’m sorry,” he said, his voice just a fine thread of what it usually sounded like. “I never say the right thing, do I? It’s just… Arya is my little sister. She always was, she will always be.”

“She is no more your sister than I am,” Sansa stated plainly.

“You were never my sister, Sansa.”

Gods, if she thought he could not hurt her any more than he already had then she was terribly wrong. No matter how faithful to the truth his words had just been.

“I am sorry, I know it is hard for you to hear it, but you were never my sister. We never even liked each other, before,” Jon continued.

“I was someone else, back then,” she tried to defend herself.

It was true. She was just a stupid girl, her head filled with pretty songs and dashing knights. But then everything had fallen apart, then somewhat back together again until she could swear the woman that had married Jon by the heart tree had almost nothing to do with the girl that had left for King’s Landing.

“And so was I. And then a lot of things happened, to both of us. You endured so much more than the vilest person on this earth deserved.” Jon said, caressing her back. “My brothers betrayed me, I had lost everything, and then I saw you. You.”

“So you ended up stuck with me, after all.” Sansa tried to keep her voice calm, but he was not helping at anything. Why didn’t Jon just shut up and let her have some sleep, if he was not going to make her feel better?

“Just let me finish, you know I’m not very good with words, please,” he asked. “I did not fell in love with you then. I couldn’t. You were my sister, a sister who never really loved me before. But then I knew you, the woman you had become. So smart, and resilient, and somehow with such an amazing heart after everything you had been through. I was so happy that we were together when we got back home!”

Jon lifted his face from her neck and looked her in the eye. He looked terrible, as ugly as she had ever seen him, his eyes puffy, dark circles under them. But somehow, even though she was furious at him still, she loved him.

“And then you were not my sister anymore,” he said, cupping her cheek. “The queen wanted you to marry as soon as possible, and I was so scared, so scared, Sansa, I would lose you. Not the same way I was scared I was never going to see Bran or Arya, even though I love them and I always will. Arya is my sister, my little sister, and that is why I never thought about choosing her instead. It was never a choice.”

She leaned into his touch, trying not to scream again. She was trying to be patient and let him finish his line of thought. But it seemed as if he was stuck with her after all.

“You were never my sister and now I knew you were not, and I have loved you and I will always love you in a different way, because if it had been Arya, instead of you, I think I would have never thought about her that way,” he added, shrugging. “Gods, it’s making me nauseous right now! But now that I thought about it, really thought about why I loved you, why I cannot live without you - because I never really thought about it, I was just so happy by your side that I never really questioned it – I realised that I don’t even want to think about a life where you didn’t come to Castle Black and I was never with you.”

Sansa threw her arms around his neck and pressed her lips to his, almost devouring his mouth in a heartbeat. Jon sighed into her mouth, and she was not sure if it was by surprise or by relieve. How she hated being angry at him! It destroyed her, it drained her, and it was so much better when she was just happy with him.

“Can you forgive me, Sansa?” he asked, gently pushing her away.

She nodded, a weak smile making way through the tears running down her face, and let him kiss her this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, hmm, I have a heart, okay?


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I was missing my sister, okay?

“This looks great,” Arya said, her wide eyes dancing from the cabbages to the tomatoes and the apple trees. “You did a very good job here.”

Sansa laced her arm in her sister’s, smiling. Arya had never approved anything she had done before. It was so good hearing a compliment from her little sister, even more when Sansa recalled Arya was the one who had always wished to run her own household.

“This way nobody has to starve,” Sansa explained. “But Arya, it was so difficult, I had no idea-“

“None of us ever had, had we?” Arya cut, stopping before the cherry tree, right in the middle of that garden in particular. Its branches were covered in small pink flowers, something worthy of the best painting Sansa had ever seen. “We did our best and yet it was not enough.”

“You are right, it was not enough,” Sansa sighed, shaking her head. “But I have to believe it is worth something. Mother, father, Robb, Rickon… It cannot have been all for nothing, right?”

“Of course it was worth something!” Arya yelled, waving her free arm around her. “Look. Look what Jon and you have done, after all! Winterfell is your home again.”

Sansa closed her eyes, letting the words sink while the smell of the flowers of the cherry tree filled her nostrils. She could almost taste the jam on a crunchy loaf of bread, sitting before the hearth after a long day.

“It is your home too, if you would like to stay,” she murmured, almost dropping herself on the bench Desmond had suggested they put under the cherry tree. She was so heavy now she almost could not move. Thank the gods her child would be born anytime now!

Arya frowned, her grey eyes almost disappearing as she squinted. She sat down next to her sister, fidgeting with the sleeves of her dress. Mother would be proud to see her younger daughter dressed like a lady in a gown Sansa had made especially for her, dark blue with a pack of direwolves around the neck. Not very different from the ones Sansa wore, except perhaps with less ornaments to suit her sister’s taste.

“I would, believe me. Nothing would make me happier,” Arya said, shaking her head and too interested on the hem of her skirt. “Believe me when I tell you I have seen more of the world than I could ever wish for, but I have to keep looking for Bran. I cannot believe- No, I refuse to believe-”

“Don’t say it, I cannot bear it, please,” Sansa begged, grabbing her sister’s hand. “I do not believe it either, just as I always knew you would come back. And I am so sorry I did not try harder to find you, I am, I know I should have, just as much as I should be looking for Bran right now.”

“Sansa, I know why father’s chambers look different.”

Sansa’s heart stopped.

How on earth…? And how had it anything to do with Bran?

“Look, I am not going to lie to you, I blamed you for what happened to us, all of us, for a long time,” Arya said, looking at Sansa’s face at last. “Nymeria, father… Even Robb.”

“I understand, and you need to know that I am terribly sorry, I was a stupid girl and-“

“I know it was not your fault Sansa,” Arya said, in what Sansa was certain was the calmest tone her sister had. “You see, I grew up too, and now it is just easier to forgive and forget. If you had anything to pay certainly the gods, if there are any, asked for more than what was the fair share.”

Sansa did not say a word, too busy fitting the pieces in her head, trying to make sense out of what Arya had just said. She was not sure if her sister still blamed her for it or not, after all.

“When I heard about you at Winterfell, with the Boltons, I decided to come home. I thought it would be safe,” Arya continued.

Sansa gave a sad laugh, looking at her feet.

“I am sorry, Sansa,” her sister apologized, her arm around Sansa’s shoulders in a heartbeat. She shivered, surprised by her sister’s sudden affection. “I am sorry, I should not have talked about it.”

“No, no. Please continue. Not talking about something does not make it go away.”

Arya frowned again, but took a deep breath and complied.

“What I’m saying is that of course you could not just go searching for Bran,” she said, stroking Sansa’s shoulder. Somehow, it reminded her of their lady mother trying to comfort Sansa after a fight with Arya. Funny how a girl who was half wild herself and that had grown up just as wildly, had learned such tender gestures. “You had wounds to heal, and one thing I learned these last few years is that you cannot just go away into the woods like a mad woman searching for whatever when you are less than your better self. And you had a town to rebuild, mouths to feed… I guess Jon and then Robb just happened somewhere along the way, so you had better things to worry about. Also, with that belly I’m pretty sure you cannot go anywhere now.”

They both laughed at that, and the thick air somehow lifted away, like a fog cut by the first rays of sun.

“That is why you did not come home before? Because it was not safe?” Sansa asked. She needed to know why her sister had not come even though every Bolton had been dead for at least three years now.

“That and because I was trying to find Bran,” Arya explained, freeing Sansa from her arms. “Well, at least now I’m almost certain he can’t be anywhere south of the Wall. That certainly narrows my search field.”

Sansa leaned back on her palms, lifting her face to enjoy the sun that filtered through the glass ceiling. Perhaps Arya wanted to leave again. Perhaps Sansa and Jon should help her, send some men with her.

“Are you afraid?” Arya cut the silence.

Sansa blinked, looking at her sister again.

“Afraid?” she repeated, raising her eyebrows.

“I’ve seen too many women scared about giving birth. About the pain, the bleeding…”

Sansa blinked again, surprised at her sister’s bluntness. She smiled. Somehow it felt good to have someone around that did not tiptoe around every subject. And then she thought about Jon and how she had wished that he had been more careful with his words. Perhaps it was just because Arya was asking, not giving answers Sansa did not wish to know in the first place.

“I would be lying if I said I was not.”

“If something happens, and I know it won’t because you’re you and you can survive anything, and it is not giving birth to another healthy son what is going to bring you down, not when women have been giving birth since the beginning of time,” Arya said, her words stepping over themselves, as if she was talking more to herself than to Sansa. “If something happens I won’t leave, you can count on that. I will take care of you until you are healthy again. Or I’ll take care of Robb and the child who’s born until the day I die.”

Sansa threw her arms around her sister’s neck, almost strangling her in a strong hug, tears filling her eyes. They might have hated each other as children, but somehow life had taught them the true meaning of family.

Arya yelped and Sansa had to let her go.

“Gods, you almost killed me!” she jested, a smile on her face.

“I can’t ask you to do that, but just hearing you saying it-“ Sansa said, her voice hoarse with tears.

“Oh, shut up! You’re perfectly healthy now and I’m finding it difficult to leave already. That’s your fault, for having such a funny son, you know? Oh, and Jon’s, I’ll have to punch him about it too.”

Their laughter echoed through the glass walls, as Sansa thanked the gods for having her sister by her side.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm terribly sorry for the long pause, but I'm home now and perhaps I'm enjoying family quality time a little too much now. Anyway, I hope I'll update more regularly now. Here you have some things happening a little bit.  
> Thank you so much for sticking around.

Sansa pursed her lips, leaning back on her chair.

So the gods had decided not to wait a full moon’s turn after her second child had first drawn breath to move their strings and twist everyone’s fate yet again.

“The queen must be informed as soon as possible, of course,” Jon said, stating the obvious.

Not even a whole moon.

She should have expected it, however. They never truly had peace, even though she and her household had enjoyed some sort of tranquillity for almost four years now, after the Dragon Queen had conquered King’s Landing and burned her enemies, just like her father had done before her. Although this last time it had ended the war, instead of starting one.

Sansa had hoped… Gods, how she had hoped that three dragons had simply discouraged the Others from ever crossing the Wall! That had explained quite well why that other war, the one simmering since the dawn of man, had stayed put for so long.

Not anymore, it seemed.

A raven from Castle Black had arrived that same morning, bearing the tale the North or even the kingdom itself feared the most. A raid on Driftwood Hall conducted by creatures with pale skin and paler eyes, only killed by fire. Lord Stane's and his family’s whereabouts still unknown. The dead too many to count, and now impossibly so as they were piled up and burnt promptly before any of them decided to come back. The intruders had disappeared just as soon as they had reached shore, or at least that was what was written on the dreadful letter.

“And we have to speak with Lady Greyjoy too. We had an agreement about our shores, the kingdom’s shores, and this means she failed us,” Sansa said, throwing the letter across the table to Arya.

“We cannot do that,” Jon reminded her, his voice low as his eyes remained fixed on the table, his hands clasping the edge of it just the same way Sansa had seen him the night before he faced Ramsay Bolton on the battlefield. “Daenerys has an agreement with the Ironborn, not us.”

“Please, Jon, it’s our shores after all!” Arya shouted out, standing up and grasping the table just the same way as Jon. Sansa knew that her sister and her husband were tied by the same bloodlines that bound Jon and Sansa, but she could not ignore that him and Arya were indeed brother and sister in a way she herself never was.

“Lady Arya is right, m’lord,” Tomard Cassel weighted in. “Just like Lady Sansa. The Greyjoys have failed us, not the queen, and it’s us who need to call them out on the matter.”

“If we do this- if we do what you are saying, that would be a challenge to the queen’s rule. One she could not just overlook, not like all the previous ones,” Jon sighed, waving around with no particular aim.

“What are you talking about? We’ve done nothing to anger her!” Arya yelled again.

Sansa sighed.

She leaned over the table and took Jon’s hand. Little did it matter that there were other people, men who were supposed to respect her and follow her, around the same table. Jon twisted his fingers so he could hold on to her hand like he was adrift and her fingers were floating scraps of what might have been a mighty ship.

“Jon and I did quite a lot already. Small things, but that piled up could lead to us losing her favour,” Sansa explained, looking at her sister now. “And you are right, Jon. By overpassing the queen’s authority we might just as well declare our independence and stop silencing the rumours of another King in the North.”

“Perhaps that is what you should have done,” Arya mumbled between her teeth.

“I will not have conversations about treason under my own roof!” It was Sansa’s time to scream and stand up, pointing at the ceiling.

Tommard and Cregan lowered their eyes, as if that would make them invisible.

“It’s not treason!” Arya fought back. “If they attack- or when they attack, we’ll be the first to fall. It is only fair we defend our best interests. And I have not seen the queen doing that as of late!”

“Silence!” Sansa demanded again, putting her foot down like she did when they were just girls and Arya insisted on not giving Sansa a doll she had stolen from her.

“Why? Why are you so scared? Your people would follow you! They would follow Jon! They would crown your firstborn in the blink of an eye!”

“Arya,” Jon pleaded, closing his eyes. Sansa knew he was preparing for a blow yet to come, although not even she herself knew if Arya or herself would strike it.

Why, why, why did it have to go wrong again? Why could they not have peace, like any other family of another time?

But then she knew. Sansa knew, though her heart hammered her ribs without mercy as her mouth went dry, still eager to give her sister the answer she deserved.

There was no peace. Ever. It never was. Not even with their lord father, their lord grandfather. Not even with Bran the Builder. Certainly not now. War- not power, like Daenerys had told her once- was a wheel, spinning and spinning. The Westerosi had only made peace with each other because a greater treat was approaching. And as soon as that threat was gone they would be fighting each other again. Those fleeting years of truce had only been possible because every great house of Westeros had agreed they needed to fight their common enemy first and that foe had took his time to strike.

Now, more than ever, was no time to rebel against the queen. Dividing the kingdom would be the single most reckless move possible. Because the lone wolf dies but the pack survives. And Sansa was not sure if that pack in particular would be enough, even with three dragons, to fight that menace.

“You both know it’s true!” Arya continued, “Anyone here could tell you that! Even Alys could tell you that, if she didn’t already.”

“Enough!” Sansa shouted, striking the table with the palm of her hand so hard she was sure it would still hurt the next day. 

“Why? Because you are the Lady of Winterfell? My lady? You never wanted any of this!” her sister kept going, her words spiralling on Sansa’s ears and making her dizzy. “You just wanted a pretty husband and a bunch of kids and that would have made you happy! But Winterfell just landed on your lap and now you don’t even know what to do with it!”

“Arya!” Jon growled this time, circling the table and grabbing his sister’s wrist.

She would not… She could not… She was Sansa Stark of Winterfell. She had survived worst things.

But right now, she could not face her sister, so she stormed out of the room, leaving her men, the ones that needed to trust her, wishing they had never set down on their chairs.


	7. Chapter 7

She felt something warm around her shoulders, and then a strong scent, like hearth and wet dirt all together, enveloped her until she felt safe again.

Sansa fluttered her feet on the warm water as she planted a small kiss on the top of her son’s head, nestled like a little frog on her chest. Though he now looked more like a baby, less like the greenish wrinkled creature she had first seen a moon ago.

Jon said nothing, one of his hands moving slowly up and down her arm, trying to warm her, as the other stroked little Benjen’s dark curls.

Another son. Another son that looked like a true Stark, this time even with the right eye colour too. And an attack on Skagos, and the gods knew how hard it was to shut independence cries every time the Northmen felt threatened. Or at least more exposed than the rest of the kingdom.

Now they had not one, but two heirs to house Stark, and though Sansa knew that, as a Lady of Winterfell that had worked and fought so hard to gain and maintain her seat, she should be more than glad for that, she had seen how rebels ended up. And she had seen that at the hands of those they rebelled against.

No. Her people were wrong. Her sister was wrong. Now was not the time. And certainly not against a queen with the greatest army ever known.

“She was right, though,” Sansa said, more to herself.

“You think?” Jon asked, somewhat surprised. “I thought you did not wish to be queen. That you did not want to endanger the northerners.”

She had been angry, at first. Furious, to be more accurate, but the eyes of the heart tree upon her, the warm water of the small pool around her feet, Jon’s arms around her shoulders and the small heart of her son beating against her own had made her almost forget about it.

Sansa let her head fall into Jon’s chest, his arms tightening just enough to make her feel like she was home and nothing evil was ever reach them again.

Not even the Others.

“Not about that. She was wrong about that,” Sansa sighed.

“I am so sorry, Sansa,” Jon apologized, kissing her forehead. “I tried to stop her, but she does not know… She does not understand!”

“That is quite true. But perhaps that is my fault,” Sansa answered. “She was right, I never wanted any of this. I just wanted to be someone else’s wife, a peaceful life full of tourneys and feasts. I never wanted to become a… A lady by my own right, I guess.”

Jon sighed.

“That was Arya’s dream.”

“Exactly. But she was away, and she came after me, both by birth and to Winterfell, after father died. And I never speak to her about this matters. About how hard it is to manage everyone’s expectations, everyone’s fears! I do not wish to complain to her about something she wished harder than I ever did!” Sansa explained, her face covered by a shadow of sadness. “I do not want to sound like the spoiled girl she thinks I am.”

Jon scoffed.

“I am almost certain that by now she already has a different idea of you, love,” Jon assured her, kissing her cheek this time. “But are you unhappy? I know this is not the life you always wanted-”

“Nor the life you wanted either, Jon,” Sansa cut him. She pointed her chin at Benjen, sleeping peacefully like Robb never did until he was dozens of moons older than his younger brother was now. “Look at him. Well, just him because I think Robb is playing with the wolves again. Apparently they cannot pull them apart most of the time, he will grow up to be more beast than lord, I am afraid…”

They both laughed. Benjen did not seem at least a little bit bothered by the noise.

“I could not be anything but happy. I feel unhappy, sometimes, because everything is not perfect,” Sansa continued, raising her head so she could face Jon. He was frowning, and she could almost hear the wheels turning behind his eyes, trying to make some sense out of her words, though she knew that, by now, he understood most of it. “Or at least not like I would like it to be. But I am happy.”

She leaned forward, gently brushing her lips against her husband’s and trying not to crush the helpless creature between them.

“Can I hold him a bit?” Jon mumbled, the tips of his fingers scratching her scalp, beneath her braid. He was smiling, a smile too wide for him, and his eyes were impossibly soft. She obliged, and Jon stretched his arm under Benjen’s back, his large hand carefully holding his head as if his son was made of glass, his other arm curling around Benjen’s little body to shield him from the cold. “You are right as ever. I had imagined a completely different life… Sometimes what you wish is not what you want, after all.”

Now she was the one trying to understand his words. But Sansa just smiled and nodded. Perhaps she understood him. A child’s dreams had nothing to do with a woman’s or a man’s desires.

And yes, they were happy. But they also had matters to attend to. Urgent ones, no less.

“Do you think we should write to the queen, then?” she asked him, disentangling herself and sitting up straight, her hands resting on her lap. One of her best Lady of Winterfell poses, though most of the time she struck it without paying attention. “Simply inform her of what happened?”

“Oh, no!” Jon blurted out. Benjen opened his mouth and for a second Sansa was terrified that Jon had woke him up and that a terrible symphony of cries and sobs ensued. Jon was quick to react, gently lulling the baby in his arms as he lowered his voice. “I mean, yes, we have to do that. But I think Arya is right, to some degree.”

Sansa pursed her lips, trying to frighten him.

“I said to some degree. But perhaps we need to remind her of our position, of how badly she needs us,” Jon explained, his eyes fixed on Sansa’s, showing he was not afraid. “I have seen them, Sansa, no matter how much I wish I did not. After the Wall, and the Watch, we are next. And now that we have seen that they can sail, apparently, I am not sure we are not exactly on the first line itself.”

“What are you implying?”

Jon inhaled slowly and closed his eyes.

“If Asha is failing to protect the shores, then the only line of defence the kingdom as left is Winterfell. And perhaps we should ask for something in return.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bear with me, something WILL happen, I promise


	8. Chapter 8

Sansa pressed her seal on the hot black wax.

She still could not believe what she had just written. Gods be damned, she still could not believe her own husband’s words! Jon’s words. Jon’s.

But he had been right. Not a day had passed since they had received news of the attack on Skagos when letter after letter of every lord and lady in the North had started to arrive, mostly asking why should they bend the knee to a queen that was clearly ignoring their vulnerable situation. Why would northern blood, and northern blood only, be spilled to protect those in the south, who clearly could not care less for them? Jon had been a leader long before she became one. If someone could understand the heart of the people it was him.

Unfortunately, just saying them that Sansa feared the queen- even though the two of them were mostly on good terms- more than she feared the Others did not seem like a good enough answer.

It had surprised her, though, that Jon had come up with that option. Sansa herself had toyed with that idea for some time, though she dared not linger on the subject. Not an independent kingdom, however. She was not that daft, or at least she was not as passionate about that idea as to forget the benefits of staying on the Seven Kingdoms. The lone wolf dies.

But surely Winterfell deserved, at least, let us say, the same status as Dorne. Dorne had more autonomy than the other kingdoms, and they were ruled by princes and princesses, not mere lords. If Winterfell would become a principality, at least the people would get a Prince in the North. A princess, more so. And perhaps that would be enough for them. Also, the taxes would be cheaper, and that was always a crowd pleaser.

So she wrote the letter that would seal their fate, and prayed that it would yet again not count as a transgression against the Dragon Queen.

Sansa had lain all her cards on the letter, one by one, hoping that would count as a sign of good-will. The Northmen feared for their lives, feared the kingdom had abandoned them. It was getting increasingly difficult for Sansa and Jon to appease them, even more after Asha’s failure. They both understood that it was on everyone’s best interest that the pacts established between north and south were honoured. But perhaps that change in status would placate them. Surely the queen understood that, for all the service Winterfell would be doing to all de Seven Kingdoms anytime soon.

She gave the letter to Cregan, her heart pounding in her throat.

The gods had mercy on them.

* * *

There he was.

Her heart leapt in her chest, as if having Jon around still surprised her. Sansa run to him, her feet fuelled more by anxiety than eagerness. She hanged herself from his neck, pressing her body to his as she planted rushed kisses to Jon’s neck. Although he looked surprised, his arms acted as usual, wrapping around Sansa’s waist and bringing her even closer.

Gods, what had they done? They must be mad, positively mad!

“Sansa,” Jon called, his voice rough.

“I’ve already sent the raven, there’s no taking it back now,” she blurted out, her fingers undoing the first button of his jerkin.

She needed to take it off her mind. And she missed her husband. Two good excuses for undressing him. Sansa smirked. Jon naked was always a good distraction.

“Sansa, please, not here,” he said, gently grabbing her wrists.

She obliged, pulling him by his collar to the first room she had found, just a couple of steps down the hall. Sansa did not know what exact room was that. It might as well be a broom closet, for all she cared, as she slammed Jon against the wall and pressed her lips perhaps a little too harshly to his. They were chapped, and though she thought about scolding him for being in the cold again, Sansa decided she just did not care.

“Sansa,” Jon panted, as soon as Sansa left his mouth alone and started to nip at his jaw instead. “Sansa.”

Her fingers were at his jerkin, and in less than a heartbeat it had flown somewhere across the room.

“Sansa, stop!” Jon demanded, his tone more controlled and lower this time as he grabbed her shoulders and pulled her away from him. “Tell me what is wrong.”

“Nothing. I am just trying to take off my husband’s clothes and he is not very willing, I am afraid,” Sansa said, crossing her arms.

Jon pursed his lips.

“Fine, all right!” she surrendered, shrugging. “I’m just nervous, it was a big step. But most of all I miss you, all right?”

She had put on the most innocent expression she could find. Her brows slightly arched, a hint of a frown, a modest pout.

Jon gave up, for his blood was not that cold after all, his lips pressed to hers as soon as his hands had found her waist again. Sansa belong there, crushed against him, not knowing exactly where her heartbeat met his. It made sense, it all made sense. His tongue dancing against hers, his teeth on her now sore mouth, his fingers on the curve of her bottom, pulling her hips up to align with his. And the warmth, spreading from the tips of her toes, to the tips of her fingers, gathering low in her belly and high in her chest, all at once.

Long ago, when they were still stealing kisses in dark corridors, she had been sure she and Jon made no sense. Two people who could not be further apart from each other. And yet now she knew she had been wrong. Sliding her hands beneath his shirt, encircling his waist and running her nails up and down Jon’s back, she knew nothing in this world, not even the sun rising in the east and disappearing in the west, made more sense than what they had.

He groaned, throwing his head back against the wall. Sansa smirked, her lips finding his pulse and sucking until she was certain he would have a mark. She had barely touched him and yet his breath was already ragged.

“Did you miss me, husband?” she asked, impishly, her hands sliding around his waist again, her swift fingers finding the edge of his breeches. She looked up at him, behind her eyelashes. His eyes were closed tightly as he nodded.

“That is very thoughtful of you,” Sansa added, planting light kisses on the front of his shirt as she lowered his breeches to his ankles. “I have missed you too, dear.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry! One day I'll stop teasing, I promise I will. Anyway, I'll update rather sooner than later, don't worry, and you know what to expect in the next chapter. Thank you so much for your patience and, as usual, comments are well appreciated!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: cover you chaste eyes!  
> As usual, thank you so much for reading.

If she ever saw the Red Woman again she had to thank her for bringing Jon back. It would have been a shame if such a man had been wasted to the cold claws of death.

“Take off your shirt, Jon,” she demanded, just before kneeling on the floor in front of him and scrapping her teeth just above his hipbone. Jon tangled his fingers in her braided hair instead, a low growl escaping his parted lips, chapped by the cold winds of winter. Gods, she had lost him already even though she was barely getting started.

“Jon,” Sansa called again, planting her hands on his stomach to push herself away from him.

He blinked once. Twice.

Then obeyed.

“Why?” he asked, tossing his shirt somewhere near his previously discarded jerkin, a puzzled look on his face.

Sansa smiled, and even though her chest had been filled with self-assurance, she felt her face burn from something quite close to embarrassment.

“Because you are perfect and I want to see you,” Sansa said, shrugging as if it was the most obvious, simplest thing in the whole world.

In the blink of an eye Jon had pulled her up by the wrists to a bruising kiss, sucking and biting her lower lip until she was sure it would be swollen for the next couple of days, at least. His hands roamed over her breasts, her waist, the small of her back, his fingers fidgeting clumsily with her dress, pulling it at the waist until he had gathered most of the fabric.

“And I have remarkable wife too,” he whispered, his nose nuzzling Sansa’s neck.

As much as she wanted it, Sansa had to slap his hands away, her skirt sliding smoothly down her legs again as they went back to their proper place.

“Your wife gave birth to your son not that long ago, dear,” Sansa reminded him, and the worried look in his eyes as he cupped her cheek almost broke her heart.

“I’m so sorry, love. It still hurts?” Jon asked, frowning. Sansa brushed her fingertips against his brow, attempting to ease it somewhat.

“It’s not that bad, it’s just-“

“We can wait,” Jon cut her, holding her shoulders this time and lowering his head to lever his eyes with hers.

Sansa’s eyes lowered too, taking in his form. She raised her hand to stroke his cheek, his beard gently scratching her palm as he leaned into her touch. How she suppressed the urge to purr with satisfaction she was not sure.

“You don’t have to,” she said, her nails lightly raking his strong shoulders. Jon closed his eyes and parted his lips again.

“And you don’t have to do this, love. I can wait for you,” he assured her, though a sharp inhale as Sansa sucked on his clavicle told otherwise.

“You don’t have to,” Sansa repeated, her lips now following the path of his scars down his torso until she was almost kneeling again. “Gods, Jon, you are so beautiful!”

She felt one of his hands cradling the back of her head, his short fingernails scratching her scalp and sending shivers down her spine.

“The things you say… The things you do…” Jon mumbled, his body arching towards Sansa’s mouth as her hands slid to the small of his back. “I wished to make you feel good too.”

Sansa pushed him away.

“It is all true,” she said, pursing her lips but keeping her hands firmly pressed on his sides. “And Jon, dear, you are talking too much. It’s distracting.”

He nodded and mumbled something close enough to an apology.

“Just let me make you feel good now and then we can talk about payback, all right?” Sansa suggested, her fingers casually tracing the edge of his left hipbone as her teeth scrapped again the skin of his right one.

Jon gulped, throwing his head against the wall and closing his fingers on the back of her neck, like he was trying to hold on to something. He did not answer her, though. Perhaps his mind was not functioning properly anymore. It had been a while since she had last touched him like this, at least before Benjen had been born. Just like after Robb’s birth, Jon had not wanted to rush, afraid that his wife was not well enough. But Sansa knew he pleasured himself, just like she knew that was not enough for him. Nor her, either. At least this way she was part of it.

She hummed satisfyingly against his warm skin, overly pleased with herself for undoing him. Nobody else knew this Jon, the one who forgot all sense of honour and propriety as soon as his wife knelt at his feet. Someone had known him like this before, but not anymore.

They belong to each other and no one else.

As if she was not paying it any attention whatsoever, her hand finally reached for his cock, already half hard. Jon hissed, as if her touch was burning him. Sansa lifted her eyes to look at him, before she took him in her mouth. His dark eyebrows were knitted together, his eyebrows screwed shut as his mouth remained wide open, desperate for air. His perfect scarred chest rose and fell hastily and she almost got lost looking at him.

Sansa lowered her head and slowly licked his length. Groaning, Jon tightened his grip on her neck, not really hurting her, though. She smirked, almost sure it would not cost her that much to make him peak.

He was hot and soft against her tongue, but hardening under her touch. Sansa closed her eyes and took him in her mouth, sucking his head as her hand pumped what her lips could not reach. Her free hand dipped from his back to his buttock, grabbing it and holding him in place. That was another thing she really liked about him, besides his sinful mouth and his deft fingers and his wide shoulders. Now that she thought about it there might not be anything she did not like about her husband’s body.

Jon growled again, and when she opened her eyelids he had brought his fist to his lips, muffling the delicious sounds that escaped his mouth and reached low in Sansa’s belly, making her wet for him.

But it was still too soon for her.

“Gods, Sansa!” he hissed, her hips slightly bucking against her, as if Jon could restrain himself only in part.

She licked and sucked as much as she wanted, Jon’s moans only assuring her she was on the right path as her fingers slowly traced the curve of his ass over and over. Although Jon could not touch her, at least not how she wanted him to, she was certain she was enjoying herself at least as much as Jon was.

“I’m close, love,” he gasped, tugging at her braid to push her away.

Sansa ignored him, her fist pumping faster as her tongue twirled around the head of his cock.

“Sansa,” Jon called again, but he had loosened his grip on her and was almost unable to breathe anymore. After a particular flick of Sansa’s tongue Jon spent himself on her mouth with a low growl.

Sansa forced herself to swallow without paying much attention to the taste of it, afraid she would feel nauseous, both her hands on Jon’s sides now and preventing him from pulling away from her. When she finally felt him shake under her grip Sansa let him go, wiping her mouth to the back of her palm.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” Jon apologized, crouching over her and encircling her awkwardly in his arms. “I couldn’t- You didn’t have to-“

“I didn’t want to ruin my dress, that’s all,” Sansa explained, her arms surrounding his waist as she buried her face in his chest. It was her silver brocade dress, after all, the one that always drove him mad with want. And she had not fit in it for a long time to just ruin it now.

“It’s a fine dress after all,” Jon whispered, sagging to the floor and hugging her properly. Before she could think about it, his lips were on hers and his tongue was freely exploring her mouth. After all, if she did not mind it, why would he?

“A fine dress for my fine wife," he added, resting his forehead against hers as they parted, his breath still not completely under control. "I love you so much, Sansa.”

She smiled.

“I love you too, dear.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyway, I thought we needed more ladies appreciating men's bodies. I at least needed it.  
> And I'm sorry for the terrible amount of plotless sin. Nop, not really.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The plot(ing) thickens.  
> Also, a father taking care of his own child as if he *cared* or something because I'm thinking we don't have enough of these.

Sansa took her place at the top of the table, her skirts ruffling gently against the stone floor. She readjusted Benjen in her arms, the child cooing some sort of complaint similar to some noise Lady might have made when she hugged her too tightly as a pup. At her left, her sister Arya was playing some sort of game with Robb that involved them slapping their hands with a pattern Sansa could not quite understand yet.

In the moons her sister had been at Winterfell she had quickly became little Robb’s favourite person, even before Rodrik or one of his wolf-brothers, like Arya liked to call them. It was only natural, after all, seeing how lively they both were. Sansa had started to accept that people would begin calling her son Robb Underfoot any time now.

She passed the paper to Jon, at her right, and took a look at the people around the table, like her own privy council. Tommard, Cregan, Maester Hullen and Alys, now steward. Sansa had yet to decide if the words she had read were good or bad, so she just kept her shoulders straight and her face perfectly calm and collected as her husband read the letter and the others grew impatient, Arya concealing it worse than anyone else.

“So?” she pressed, putting Robb on the floor and letting him run around the hall. “What does she say? Will Winterfell become a principality or what?”

Sansa opened her mouth to retort, but Jon raised his hand, frowning heavily as his eyes remained fixed on the black words in his hands.

“Sansa!” Arya insisted, grabbing her sister’s elbow.

“I am not really sure,” Sansa answered, brushing her son's curls from his forehead. Benjen smiled at her, and his fingers started to toy with the tip of her braid, falling on her chest.

“What do you mean, you’re not sure?” Arya asked, her voice a couple of pitches too high.

“She sends her sympathy for the attack on Skagos and gives her word Lady Greyjoy will not fail again.” Jon said, passing the letter to Tommard and then looking at his wife again. “Can I hold him?”

Without a word, Sansa handed Benjen over to him. The child grabbed the front of Jon’s jerkin in his tiny fists and was sleeping in his father’s arms in less than a heartbeat. If Sansa was not so worried about the letter being passed along the table she could have smiled at the sight.

“That’s all?” Arya screeched. “That’s it?”

“No, that is not it,” Sansa retorted, leaning forward on the table and resting her chin on her hands. “She says we should discuss the change in Winterfell’s status in person, and that now is not exactly the best time.”

“Her grace just wants to gain some time, for what I see,” Maester Hullen said, his twig-like fingers gently tapping the table-top. “I do not know the exact words you wrote her, my lady, but I am almost certain they must have caused quite an impression on the queen.”

Sansa waved her hand in the air as soon as she saw Arya open her mouth again from the corner of her eye.

“We have to thread carefully from here forward,” Sansa said, in her most firm tone, practiced and perfected over the years as Lady of Winterfell. “The Crownlands have much to lose if the North abandons the Seven Kingdoms, but we have much more to lose if the queen declares war on Winterfell.”

“It’s a powerful army after all, m’lady,” Tommard agreed, nodding at the ceiling and arching his thick eyebrows. “But if the queen’s forces crush us she might as well just melt down the Wall, for nothing else will stand in the way of the Others.”

“That’s right!” Arya agreed, perhaps a moment too soon for Sansa’s taste. “She cannot deny us what is ours by right!”

Sansa leaned back on her chair and eyed Jon. Why had her husband chosen to remain so quiet? But then she noticed him frowning, a deep wrinkle above his nose as he looked at the child sleeping peacefully in his arms. She could almost hear his thoughts, twisting and turning inside his skull. She even dared to think they mirrored her own as she looked at Robb or Benjen.

On what world did she wish her children to grow up?

There had been a time, a time when she thought she would never, ever, ever bear any children, that she would have been quite happy to just feel home again. But then she had wanted her home back, and all the sworn houses that came with it. And now? What did she want now? The same status the Northmen had offered her five years ago and that she had declined for the sake of peace?

Perhaps she would never be satisfied, after all. Just like another woman, too ambitious for her own and the kingdom’s good, turned into ash less than a moon after sitting on the Iron Throne. Perhaps her fate would be the same.

However, unlike Cersei, Sansa still had too much to lose. Her sons, her husband, her people.

No, she could not rush it.

And it was not out of greed, or at least most of it was not out of greed. She knew Arya’s words were the same on the mouths of the men and women tired of being smashed under the Bolton’s boots, tired of those years when the South did nothing to help them. They had a Stark on Winterfell again, and that had quieted them for some time. Their lady needed some time to readjust, after all.

But five years turned out to be five years too many, and Sansa feared she was losing their favour. Common men and common women had not the real power, but real power laid where they said it laid.

“We have no right, Arya,” Jon said, his grave voice finally calming Arya’s excitement. Well, at least to some degree. “Our right is to live here. That is all we have, and it comes with a duty to defend our people.”

“Then why did you- you, Jon, no one else,” Arya pointed out. “Why did you suggest we asked for a change of status?”

Jon closed his eyes and sighed.

Sansa straightened her back and rested her hands on her lap, now Lady Stark and not just his wife. She was getting frustrated with Jon, always contradicting himself, changing his mind about what the future of Winterfell should be. Sometimes she even thought it might be best not to listen to him.

“Because it is northerners right. If their blood, our blood after all, is to be spilled to protect a southern queen’s kingdom-“ he started.

“Forgive me, Jon, but I believe we belong in that kingdom, or at least I understand we had already established that position,” Sansa cut him.

Benjen twisted in Jon’s arms, threatening to wake up, as if finally the voices around had been enough to bother him. Jon rocked him a bit, and hushed him to sleep again before continuing.

“You are right, of course. But I was just saying what is on the people’s mind. So, to answer you, Arya, it is their right, not ours. Sansa could not have simply made hollow demands, she had to explain the situation.”

“Which her grace didn’t understand, I’m afraid,” Alys scoffed, passing the letter to Arya, at last.

“Well, I understand it very well!” Arya blurted out, reading just a couple of words and throwing the paper across the table to her sister. “She won’t give the northmen what the northmen deserve. So what’s our next step, then?”

Sansa pressed her hands together, wishing she had the answer to that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the spelling problems, I'll try to check them as soon as possible!  
> Also, I'm sorry about Arya, I'm not trying to make her look bad or anything. I feel she is just someone who has been away for too long and this is just her way of doing what she feels it's her part (I guess). Don't worry, I'll try not to mistreat her that much.  
> This story is gonna be a little longer as well, for I had a couple ideas this last few days, though I'm not having much time to write as you can see. But I really need to shake things up a little bit with this, so let's up uni gives me a break at last.  
> Thank you so much for all your kudos, comments and hits in general! Every time I see one of this it truly brightens my day and gives me strength to carry on.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so so so sorry for taking so long to update. Believe me when I say I wanna come back to those wonderful days that I updated on a daily basis. But uni is being a little bitch right now, and I am doing some other writing on the side (dull scientific statistic stuff, you wouldn't wanna know, but that I unfortunately happen to love and keep on adding stuff to).  
> Oh well, if only one could get a degree by writing fanfiction...

“Still nothing, my lord?” Sansa asked, hopping on the table like she was a silly, carefree girl.

That, however, could not be farthest away from the truth. Almost three full moons had passed, and still no answer from King’s Landing, even though Jon had written to his aunt shortly after the queen had said she would discuss the matter in person, reminding her she would always be welcome at Winterfell and inviting her to meet her new grand-nephew.

They had been through this before. Waiting, not knowing. Uncertainty floating heavily over their heads, like an executioner’s sword waiting to give its final blow. Sansa had talked to Jon about this, a hundred times more than she had discussed the subject with her council, or even her own sister. She had actually avoided bringing up the matter when Arya was around, afraid of her sister’s more radical views. But she had talked to Jon, and asked him more than once if they were biting more than they could chew.

Jon had reminded her that they were not doing it for themselves, so it was not exactly a question of ambition or greed. It was something that needed to be done for the people. For if they lost their loyalty, what would they have left then?

At least the Others had kept quiet, and that was the least they could do after Daenerys had sent five hundred Unsullied to raid their camps just beyond the Wall. Without supplies near the coast surely they could not reach the sea, or at least that had been the main idea of it all.

It seemed to be working, though, and that was enough for the time being.

“Nothing, love,” Jon said, shrugging, as he reached for her hands, clasped at her lap.

She could see the dark circles under his reddish eyes, even though he had tried to distract her by giving her a weak smile that brought tiny wrinkles to the corners of his eyes. Sansa pushed away the books and papers in front of him, no doubt another part of the compendium of notable houses of the North that he would never finish if he kept deciding to had more and more details. She propped her feet on the arms of Jon’s chair, and grabbed the back of his neck, pulling him to her chest.

Jon sighed and encircled her in his arms, his head resting against her chest so her heartbeat was drumming in his ear. Sansa rested her chin on his soft dark hair, and he smelt like Jon. It was strange, how sometimes she could decompose his scent in smaller parts, like a wet field, smoke, sometimes even horse, while others he just smelt like him.

“We have been through so much already,” he whispered, running his fingers up and down her back and making her shiver in his arms. “We have to keep our hope. She cannot say no.”

“Although…” Sansa trailed off, her lean fingers stroking Jon’s cheek. “I think…”

Jon planted his palms on the curve of her waist, pushing her away. He lifted his chin and reached for her face, carefully tucking a stray hair behind her ear. Sansa turned her head and kissed his palm as a sense of peace and belonging washed over her.

She had heard stories, growing up, both from those that cared about her and those that did not, to say the least. How highborn women never married for love. How men grew tired of their wives. How a lady might feel lonely and trapped after years of marriage. Now she just wished to shout to all of those people that they were very wrong. Either that or Sansa had been very lucky after all.

“What?” Jon asked, his thumb tracing her cheekbone.

“Perhaps we have gone too far,” she whispered, believing that if he did not hear her it would not be true. “First our marriage, then Robb, now this. She will get tired of all this defiance someday, I am sure.”

Jon sighed, resting his head on her chest once again, like that was his rightful place and no one could take him from there.

“She will,” he assured her. “She has too. But I have come to realise that even if she does, there is nothing my aunt can do. She needs us.”

Sansa knew they were not playing fair. In another world, she might have felt guilty about it. But her lord father had played fair, and ended up with his head on a spike in the Red Keep. If she had learnt something useful from Baelish was that always playing fair was the best way to ensure your defeat, eventually.

“We have survived worse than this, after all. I mean, you came from the dead and all that,” she tried to joke.

Jon gave a small laugh, hugging her tightly against him.

“And now we have each other. Think about what we have already achieved together, love. It is impossible to lose this one,” he agreed.

Sansa gently tugged at his hair, the soft tendrils brushing against her fingers as his warm grey eyes fixed on hers again. She smiled, although she felt her nose itch on the inside. Sometimes Jon said the most perfect things. And he was so beautiful, so wonderful, when he looked at her like this. Like he was in bliss or in some sort of heaven of his own, a soft smile lightning up his face.

She lowered her head, her lips reaching for his full ones as a warm hand sneaked under the hem of her dress, caressing her ankle over the stoking. Sansa sighed in delight as Jon sucked on her lip, and then his hot tongue was brushing hungrily against hers, consuming them both. She moaned into her husband’s mouth, pulling his hair not so gently this time.

Her husband. Hers.

Jon groaned just as fiercely in response, as if the same fire burned inside of him. His hands roamed on her calve, the back of her knee, her thigh as his wicked, wicked mouth busied itself with the curve of her neck.

Gods, was he right! The things they did together…

Sansa let her mouth fall open, panting heavily. Her dress was too tight around her chest, like an iron cuirass, and she loathed it. She wanted to be rid of it.

Jon toyed with the satin edge of her stockings, as if he had not decided yet if he should take them off or just leave them, though he usually enjoyed peeling them off and throwing them as far away as possible. She had lost more than a pair that way, and had stopped bothering a long time ago. Sansa could always make or buy new stockings and the same could not be said about Jon’s touch.

“At least these are not the ugly ones,” Jon joked, still not making up his mind. However, his eyes studied her face, a silent question forming behind them.

“By all the gods, that was only one time!” Sansa cried out, rolling her eyes. “You say that one more time and you’ll never see nice stockings ever again!”

“Oh, no, please, my lady!” he begged, although she could notice he was biting his cheeks, trying not to laugh. “I promise I will be good to my lady wife!”

She took the wrist under her skirts in her hands, his look of surprise making her smirk.

“Then be good to your wife, Jon,” she commanded, guiding his hand to where she was already becoming wet for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I guess I have a think for bossy!Sansa???? In my head she was always a little bit like this, except she was not confident enough with Jon just yet.  
> As ever, I'm so sorry for the spelling mistakes, I promise one day I'll fix them.  
> Anyway, thank you so much for being there and I promise I'll answer your comments eventually. I miss talking to you, guys!


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Longer chapter because it took me too long to update and I don't want anybody saying that I tease, even though I know I do. Anyway, enjoy!

“Are you sure, love?” Jon asked, though he had been eager enough to obey her, tentatively brushing a finger against her warm folds.

Sansa bit her lip for a moment, her nails scratching the oak wood under her. She let her head fall back, savouring the feel of Jon’s fingers on her. Gods, it had been too long. It had been too long and it was not fair that she had had to wait for him for so long, waiting until her body had healed again. Well, it was not that bad, if she reminded herself that at least this time she knew she waited for something. There had been a time when Jon with her was but a distant foggy dream.

“I’m sure. I’m ready,” she said him, closing her eyes and letting herself enjoy his touch. “I have spoken to maester Hullen and-“

“Please don’t talk about the maester now,” Jon cut her. “I have my wonderful wife in front of me right now, I don’t want to think about an old man. I just want to know if you are all right.”

Sansa smirked and pulled him to her for yet another kiss. She was hungry and thirsty for him. Just for him. There had been no one before Jon and there would be no one after, certain as her heart beating inside her chest.

His lips were soft but his mouth was demanding, biting and sucking and making Sansa moan into it, her cries and his grunts mixing together perfectly as Jon’s fingers kept on working her nub. Sansa held his hand there, right there, his movements slow at first, like he was teasing her. Like she needed any more teasing than what she had endured those last few moons.

“Please…” she begged against his lips, when he parted from her, panting like there was not enough air in the whole world to fill his longs.

Sansa threw her head back, leaning on her elbows to push herself against his touch, rotating her hips just in time with his fingers, the sweet torture spreading from her thighs to her belly and her chest until she was wailing like a mad woman.

“Please, Jon…”

He stopped.

He had just stopped. Jon had set back down on his chair and just stopped.

She would have his head for it. By the old gods and the new, and all the others popping from under every stone the last few years, she would have his head and she would swing the sword herself just like her lord father did.

“Oh!” she gasped, before she could even start to yell at him, as he grabbed the back of her knees and swung her legs over the back of his chair, leaving her buttocks bare against the cold surface of the table. However, she felt her skin burn with anticipation and longing, her mind spinning as Sansa tried to decide if she should beg again or scold him for teasing her.

“I am just following your orders, my lady,” Jon mocked, planting wet kisses on the inside of her thigh, his strong hands holding her in place at her hips. Sansa whined, growing impatient. “I am trying to be good to my lady wife.”

Gods, how she wished to smack his arrogance away! And how she wished she was truly strong enough to do it, instead of panting and shivering with the slightest of Jon’s touches.

“Well, you are not being very good at it right now, Lord Snow,” she growled, burying her fingers in his thick hair and scratching the back of his head. But instead of being hurt, Jon just closed his eyes and hummed in delight as he continued his trail from knee to hip and then to knee again.

“What does my lady wife require of me, then?” he asked, digging his teeth on her soft skin, his grey eyes sparkling as they searched her face for answers.

Sansa threw an arm over her face, gasping for air. Gods, why was he doing this to her? She knew she deserved it for what she had done to him on that abandoned room, almost a moon ago. How thrilling it had been to drive him mad with want. Perhaps that was his aim, too, although Jon was kind and loving and he never denied her anything. Sansa would love him forever for that. That and his plump lips, sucking on her skin until she was sure it would leave a bruise. One that would make her shiver in delight every time she saw it while changing herself.

“I want you to use your pretty mouth,” she whispered, her fingers on his hair somewhat gentler.

Jon hummed again against her flesh, making her shudder.

He was going to kill her. He was going to kill her and then she would come back to kill him too for that.

“I thought I already was, my lady.”

She jerked up, impatient and tired of this torture, decided on choking him, punching him, scratching him- anything that could wipe that smug smile from his face. Sansa held his head with both hands, her wide eyes fixed on his, as she wanted to convey a sense of certainty when she spoke.

“Jon, I think I have waited long enough, now,” she told him, her voice hissing between her teeth. “And I swear by all the gods that wish to hear me that if you don’t stop teasing right now and kiss my cunt already you’ll wish to be sent to the Sevens Hells!”

Sansa felt her face burn, embarrassed by her own words. But yet she was panting, her legs were open around her husband’s head, her hair was in such as state of dishevel she would have to fix it before leaving the room, her skirts hiked up to her waist and her bare bottom on the table they held council around. Perhaps her words were the least of her concerns right now, just as long as Jon did what he had promised.

“As my lady wife wishes, then,” he mumbled, his eyes not sparkling anymore, but heavy-lidded and dark with lust as he finally lowered his mouth, his perfectly skilled mouth, and gave her a long, slow lick.

Sansa fell back on the table again, a strangled moan escaping her parted lips, her fingers fisting at his hair, as if she was trying to hold on to something.

He would kill her, but she would die happily.

“Oh, Jon!” she cried, arching her back so she could push herself against his tongue. “Oh, sweet Jon!”

She chanted his name, over and over, until her throat was dry. Her bodice was too tight over her breasts, her nipples pushing painfully against the fabric. Her back would hurt the next few days due to the awkward position on the table, but she did not care. She just cared about Jon’s touch and how much she had longed for it.

“Is my lady happy, now?” Jon asked, hooking a strong arm under her waist to pull her to him and hold her in place.

Sansa nodded, unable to speak. Jon laughed, and somehow that aroused her even more, the sound of his husky laughter echoing on the walls.

“I just want to make you happy, Sansa,” he said, and hearing her name sent a warm feeling through her flesh, as if he had stopped playing with her and that was the purest of truths she could hold on to.

She wanted to say something in response. At least that she loved him too. But before she could start to form the words in her head Jon had wrapped his lips around her nub and left her unable to say anything besides his name again and again, until all the castle knew who was guilty of driving the lady of the house mad with desire.

His tongue swirled around her nub, like he was kissing her properly, and Sansa jerked her hips up as a jolt of pleasure crawled through her back and settled on the back of her neck. Her body was tense, and she knew it would not take her very long to reach her peak. Her skin was covered in sweat and her lips had gone dry from all the panting and chanting and moaning for Jon.

Gods, was he good at it!

She had heard women complain about her lovers in bed. How selfish and brute they were, as if they just wanted to be done with it. Now, with her husband’s mouth on her cunt, as she had called it, she decided it should be a lawfully protected right that every woman received the same treatment by her lover. Surely the world would be a better place. Maybe she should talk to the queen about it.

But he kept on sucking and licking as much as he wished, his mouth occasionally leaving her nub to nip her thigh but always coming back and turning her head into mash.

“Am I being good, my lady?” Jon whispered, and when she opened her eyes she saw the sheepish look of his face, peeking over her belly.

“You don’t have to call me that, Jon,” she managed to say. She had always relished on the idea that she and Jon were equals, even though she was the Lady of Winterfell, although she had to admit she enjoyed the way he called her his lady. He giving her that sort of power was more than thrilling. But it was time to put things in their proper place again. “I am Sansa and I am your wife. Oh, good gods!”

He had easily slid two fingers inside her, stroking just the right spot as he kept on lapping at her, the wet noises he made filling her ears.

“Sansa” he muttered, lifting his mouth just an inch and then licking her again. “Sansa.”

Jon repeated that sequence once, twice, and then she lost count, moaning and whimpering and shouting his name too as she was finally sent over the edge, her hips moving to their own accord against his tongue and his fingers.

He did not stop, not even after she started to come back to her senses again, and Sansa had to gently push him away. Her chest was heaving harshly, her blood still ringing in her head when she let her legs fall down at her husband’s sides, letting them fall from the chairs arms. She started to be aware of the table’s edge on the small of her back, and an acute pain on her neck from stretching it so much.

Her head was still a little foggy when she felt Jon’s body over hers, and she lifted her head to kiss him and taste herself on his tongue. If she had a say in the matter, they would do this every day.

“We eat on this table…” Sansa mumbled when they parted, brushing a stray hair that had stuck to her sweaty face.

“I don’t think this was much different.” Jon declared, a wide smile spreading on his lips as he gently stroked her waist.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here, have some angst and some plot. As usual, every comment/kudos is highly appreciated (as in I screech like a little child when I see them) and I'll try to update as soon as possible to keep everyone from suffering (I'm afraid not the characters, though). Thank you so much for reading!

Sansa carefully untied the last silvery ribbon on her hair, her fingers kneading through her strands to undo yet another stray knot. She saw her frown reflected on the copper mirror and forced herself to relax her face. They said frowning left hard wrinkles on your face, after all. She had already had plenty of reasons to frown on her life. At least now that it was easier to avoid it she would try with all her might.

Everything would be fine.

As long as there was a Stark in Winterfell, as it always should have been, everything would turn out just fine. And they had at least five Starks now, so more the reason not to worry.

Why was it always the letters from the south that brought the darkest words?

She grabbed her ivory comb- a fine gift from Arya for her last name day- and dealt with the rest of the knots and rebel tresses. Although most people chose to ignore it, in truth keeping her hair shiny and silky and perfect costed her a considerable amount of work.

There had been a time, while she was married to Ramsay and during a couple of moons after that, when she had loathed her hair. Its colour, its length. Everything she could hate about it. It remind her of Ramsay’s hands on her, pulling it while he tortured her over and over until she thought she was just a hollow shell of a girl.

But then those memories had gone fainter with time. With love and care, too, and not only from Jon but from herself as well. It was her lady mother’s hair, and Lady Catelyn had been brave and strong until the very end, and so must she.

She heard the door cringe behind her and heavy boots echoing on the stone floor. Her heart jumped, even though her concerns were strangling it. He did not say a word, but she heard something dragging on the floor, a familiar soft sigh and a strong hand wrapped around her fingers and took the comb from her.

Sansa let her shoulders fall, sighing too as he parted her hair in small sections and started to comb it, without a word. Slowly. Carefully. She almost purred in delight, feeling the teeth of the comb scratching her scalp. Jon had done it a thousand times, mostly after he had ruined her hair with his roaming hands while her head was too clouded with lust to care, but she always cherished the feel of his tender fingers disentangling her strands.

Outside, she could hear the wolves howling and Arya laughing and shouting at Robb for throwing a snowball at her. It was a perfect day to play outside, after all, for even though everything was covered in snow at least the sun was shining.

But that letter, another dreadful letter, had to ruin an otherwise perfect day. The Southerners could not leave them be, as it turned out.

Well, at least this time Asha had done her job and intercepted another attack on Skagos in time and the queen herself had written Sansa to tell her so. That and that apparently the Others were in short numbers, perhaps because they had not yet figured out how to build a larger fleet. That they had some sort of fleet still astonished Sansa, anyway, and even Jon, who had seen them, had been surprised.

But at least this time Asha had been effective and almost no harm had been done.

Well, to them it had, though.

“I will go,” Jon said, breaking the long silence between them.

Sansa sighed and pursed her lips together, preparing for another fight. Gods, if she had a say in the matter she would forbid every raven to ever come to Winterfell. Lately they only brought bad news, and not even once the one she needed the most. Dark wings, dark words indeed. And southern words as strong as a sailor’s rope, pulling them apart from their safe haven.

“You are needed here,” she stated bluntly. She still could not wrap her head around the fact that her husband was too dense to understand it.

“You are the lady of Winterfell. I am just your husband. I will go,” Jon insisted, taking another streak in his hand.

Sansa scratched her forehead, trying to find the right words to tell him he was being an idiot while she went over all the reasons she loved him. For example, the fact that he liked brushing her hair.

“That is the point, Jon. I am the lady of Winterfell, Warden of the North, so on, so on. I am the one that has to be there. I am the one they will accept to negotiate with.”

“You have to stay,” he insisted, his voice not so firm as before. “I mean, you don’t have to go, Sansa. You don’t want to leave your home and you don’t have to.”

He was right.

She did not want to leave. She would leave not only the land behind, but both her children, her husband, her sister… Everyone who loved her and cared about her. And she had promised herself to never, ever, ever go beyond the Neck. However, Jon was right in another thing as well. She was the lady of Winterfell, and she had a duty. She had to protect all the ones she loved.

“Our people respect you, dear,” she said, turning around and cupping his cheek. The concerned look in his eyes made her smile sadly. “They love you at least just as much- if not twice as much- as they love me. The same cannot be said about those south of Winterfell’s walls. That is why it is wiser for me to go and for you to stay.”

“Well, then, I’ll go with you!” Jon blurted out, holding her face between both his hands, his eyes wide. “Arya can stay and she can look over the boys. Alys and Jocelyn will help her, of course!”

“Jon, stop,” Sansa whispered, shaking her head.

After moon after moon with no answer about Winterfell’s status, the queen had chosen a date in two moons for a kind of summit at Riverrun, promising to discuss not only the attacks or at least the attempts of attacks on the shores but also Winterfell’s matter. And Sansa had to go, it was the only way. That Jon could not understand it was driving her mad.

“I know we have fooled ourselves, over and over again, and because it always turned out for the best we somehow kept on doing it,” she mumbled, before planting a lingering kiss on his lips.

“And this time it will turn out fine just as well, I know it will! Just let me go in your place, please,” he begged, stroking her cheekbones. “I love you, Sansa, I love you! He hurt you so much already, I don’t want him to hurt you again.”

Sansa scooted herself to Jon’s lap and wrapped her arms around him, holding his warm body against her own and hiding her face in his neck. No one would harm her there.

“He can’t hurt me. Not anymore. I am so much stronger now than I was before,” she promised him. “And we cannot force Arya to stay here any longer. She wishes to find Bran, and you and I both know the reason she has not left yet is because she thinks it would hurt us if she went away.”

“So I will have to let both of you go, then?”

She kept quiet, listening to his heart beating faster and faster with each breath as she cursed all the Others and all the queens and all the lords and ladies that would keep her apart from her family for so long.

Gods helped her, she would kill every raven herself if it meant no one would keep them apart.


	14. Chapter 14

“Jon told me about it.”

Sansa pursed her lips together and squinted as she tried to thread the needle. She was working on a new winter cloak for Robb, growing faster than her hands could sew, though it would be much easier if her sister helped.

If someone had told her, when they were children, that Arya would grow up to be as devoted to her nephews as she was Sansa would have probably burst out with laughter to their face. But looking at her younger sisters holding her youngest son in her not so awkward arms she had no doubt that Arya could become, if she wished, a very fine mother. Over the last year, after she came back home, she had volunteered every time she could to help taking care of the boys. She lulled Benjen to sleep, she had taught Robb to skip stones at the pond, and she had told them stories, happy stories, about her time beyond the narrow sea.

And now it seemed both Arya and Robb had taken upon themselves to teach poor Benjen how to crawl, dragging themselves around the floor as they chased the little one. Sansa had already thought about scolding them at least thrice, but then a little voice in her head had reminded her that this was all too fleeting for her to destroy just yet.

Sansa did not have many happy stories she could tell her children, and she had already told them all. Most of them about a time when her lord father, and her lady mother, and Robb and Bran and Rickon still lived under the old roof of the castle, or after she and Jon had got back home.

But now she had to leave them behind. And she had to go south again.

“I don’t agree with you, of course,” Arya said, sitting on the stool right next to Sansa. “You should let me go in your place, and stay here with your family.”

Sansa sighed and scratched her forehead.

Just as dense as her brother.

“You are my family too, Arya. You know that.”

“And you know damn well what I mean!” Arya blurted out. Robb stopped in his tracks and stoop up, a frighten frown on his face while his little brother kept going around his imaginary circle, one fat hand in front of the other and screeching in delight.

“Mommy!” he called, his lips already curling as his eyes prepared for yet another rant.

“It is fine, sweetie,” Sansa tried to calm him, leaving her work on the floor next to her and stretching her arms towards her son. He run to her, nestling his face in Sansa’s neck and sobbing softly.

“I don’t want you to go, mommy!”

Sansa cast a furious look at her sister. Of course Robb was already old enough to understand at least part of their conversation. And of course he would be crying all day about it.

“It will be only for a couple of days, Robb. You won’t even notice I am not here,” she lied, caressing his dark hair.

He smelt so good, so sweet and familiar. Like he was part of her too, just like her arms and legs. He was hers, just like Benjen, from the moment she had felt them inside of her. And she had loved them, both of them, since she had heard them cry for the first time, like arriving to this world had been the cruellest thing they had ever suffered.

Sansa remembered far too well the day of Robb’s birth. How terrified she was, after hearing all the stories of women that bled to death, or got the fever, or started to convulse until they died. She had heard about babies that were born blue and cold, babies that never opened their eyes and never cried. But she what she remembered best was the warm tears that run down her face as she heard his screams fill her ears. The same tears of relief she saw on Jon’s eyes the moment he had stormed into the room and held them both in his arms.

With Benjen, at least, she had Arya by her side and Sansa knew that if the Gods decided she had already been too blessed by surviving the birth of her first son at least Jon would not be left alone with two small children.

However, now she just wished her luck to go on. She wanted to stay with them, the three of them. Arya too, if she had a say in the matter. They had been so happy together, why could it not stay like that?

Sansa had dreamt lately and more often than ever before, with a bunch of Starks around the table on the great hall once again. Their children laughing and running down the stairs with their wolves at their heels. Telling bedtime stories, and singing by the hearth. Chasing themselves around the lemon tree, in the centre of the glass gardens, or splashing their feet in the pond.

But before they could have any of those things they needed peace. And peace required some sacrifices.

“You know in your heart that Bran is still out there, Arya,” Sansa said, her eyes filled with tears. Sansa had thought she hated her sister for so long that being parted from her so soon after realising she had loved Arya all her life was almost unbearable.

“I would rather go to Riverrun this for the ones I know I have than leave for someone who might-“ Arya looked at Robb and stopped.

Sansa understood her meaning perfectly.

“I will go and that is final. And you must find our brother. He is somewhere, out there, I know he is,” Sansa said, determined.

She had already made up her mind. It made sense. It was the right thing to do.

Arya nodded.

“Besides, sweetie, I will be back before you notice I was even gone, I promise,” she lied again, her hands running up and down Robb’s arms as she looked into his puffy blue eyes. Just as hers. Just as her late lady mother’s. “And you have to help daddy with little Benjen. He is just a baby after all.”

“I will, mommy,” Robb half-sobbed, scrubbing his eyes with his fists.

“Do you promise?”

“Benjen, no!” Arya stood up and run to the other side of the room before Sansa could have her answer.

Sansa looked at the baby, horrified. A moment of distraction and Benjen had caught the edge of a tablecloth and Arya had reached him just a heartbeat before he could throw two heavy mugs and a fruit plate over his head.

Arya fought with her nephew’s grip for a while, and when Benjen finally conceded his wailing cries were enough to summon an army twelve miles away. Sansa arched a brow at Robb, as if she needed to prove a point to him.

“Why is it always the quiet ones that get in trouble?” Arya scoffed, lulling Benjen against her shoulder as she tried to quiet him down.

“The loud ones get in trouble just as much,” Sansa laughed, combing Robb’s hair with her fingers. The boy was still pouting but could not resist his mother's gentle caress.

How could she be parted from them? All of them, all at once. Jon could complain all he wanted, but Sansa was jealous that at least he got to stay home and keep the boys. She knew it was not his fault, that she had to do what she had to do. But not having a choice was even worse.

She recalled the last time she had done something against her will and her body chilled to the bones.

No, this time would be different.

Sansa was a woman grown. A lady. A wife. A mother. She was her own mistress now.

No, he could not toy with her as he did before. She would not let him. For Jon, for Robb, for Benjen, for Arya and all the North.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanna say in advance how sorry I am a) for your water bills b) for your poor chaste eyes, for this is pure trashy sin

Sansa screwed her eyes shut, trying to ignore the first rays of sun as they caught her eye-lids. She tucked her head under the furs, wiggling herself closer to the warm body behind her. The fire had died long ago, and the heat from the pipes was not nearly enough to keep the cold winter morning away from her.

She bumped with her behind against something hard and smiled, groaning in delight as she pressed herself even more against him.

“So my lord husband is already awake,” she whispered, as Jon’s large hand came to rest under her breasts, holding her tight to his chest, his body perfectly wrapped around her.

Sansa had thought a million times and one how she would like to stay just like that forever. In the early light of dawn, with all the castle still asleep and the chamber already cold, Jon’s warm arms around her made her feel whole again.

No, not whole, not really.

Like she had never been broken. Like the girl who had abused and hurt had died and the woman happy in bed with her husband had replaced her. She had wondered if that was what Jon felt too, after being brought back from the other side. But she knew they had not changed just by meeting each other again. It had been when the direwolf flag had been hoisted again on the highest tower of the castle. That had been the day that both the boy and the girl had died forever, the day they had started to take back what was theirs and bring the world to its proper place again.

Jon gave a sleepy groan against her ear as he stretched himself, tightening his grip around her and pressing his lips to her jaw, his rough beard scratching her skin.

Gods, she would miss him so much! In five years, almost six now, she had hardly slept a night without him. Jon was her husband, her lover, but also her partner, her confident and her most trusted friend. She could have been fine on her own, maybe she could have managed Winterfell all by herself. She was not completely useless, she had the proper education and she had the right family name. But she could have never been great without him, just like she was fairly certain Jon would never be great on his own. Their boys had proved her just how great they could be together, no matter how every parent thought their children were the most perfect in the world.

“I don’t want to be. And neither should you,” Jon mumbled, his voice still hoarse from sleep. “At least let me and the boys go with you.”

If her body was not still half-asleep she might have slapped him. How many times did she need to explain to him that he had to stay? Sure, there had been a time, in the beginning, when they had talked about not doing anything just because of duty anymore. But it had been a time when all they had were each other, and Sansa could not care less about her life than Jon himself did.

Now everything had changed. The North needed them, just as much as their children. The time for being reckless and selfish had passed. They had traded their freedom in favour of happiness, and that happiness now required that they paid the price. It was only fair.

“Or, you know, don’t go,” he suggested as he loosed his grip on her and warm fingers trailed down her shift, over her hip and her thighs.

“That is not an option and you know it,” she whispered, slightly annoyed, though she arched her body against his touch.

“Will you at least let me show you my arguments?”

“If by that you mean what you’re pressing against my back then I guess I’ve seen it plenty of times already, dear” Sansa jested, covering her mouth with her fist so he could not hear her giggling. “It’s a strong argument, nevertheless.”

“That my lady wife would think I would make such a basic quibble offends me,” Jon said in a dangerously low voice she knew all too well, his hand fisting on the hem of her shift and dragging it up to her waist, his fingers ghosting over her flesh. “And I have other arguments as well.”

She felt his hand sliding down her waist and she opened her mouth, gasping, her heart fluttering on her chest. Jon’s fingers lazily drew tiny circles around her bellybutton, her muscles flexing in reflex.

“Pray tell me, Lord Snow, what those might- Oh!”

Jon dipped his hand between her legs, gently searching for her nub between her folds. Sansa decided to help him then, digging one of her feet on the mattress and bending her knee up as her arm reached behind her, finding Jon’s thick curls.

“Oh, Jon…” she sighed, closing her hand on his hair, her mouth gasping for air already even if he had not stroked her for the third time yet.

“Will you think of me, Sansa?” he asked, his lips tracing the line of her arm draped around his head. “Will you miss me?”

She twisted around in his arms, his long fingers still on her cunt, rubbing her nub in an achingly slow rhythm, teasing her, torturing her. Sometimes she wondered if Jon used this as some way to coerce her, clouding her mind with lust and make her say things she would never say out loud under other circumstances. Sansa kissed him sloppily, awkwardly, but her lips had found his soft, sweet ones all the same as she caught his wrist between her small fingers and forced him to follow the pace she wanted.

Jon obliged, chuckling against her mouth.

“I will think of you every time I’m in bed alone, while I touch myself,” she confessed, pressing her forehead to his and finally opening her eyes. “I will pretend it is your mouth on my cunt, or your cock inside me.”

She felt her face burn terribly, embarrassed by her own words. She never thought a respectable lady, even less a mother of two, would ever say something so scandalous. But it was all Jon’s fault, after all. He made her mad.

When she saw his eyes widen and grow dark, she was certain she had the power to make him mad just as well. With a swift motion, Jon was hovering over her, one hand supporting his weight at her side and the other sliding over her belly.

“Take this off,” he demanded, his voice dangerously low as he lowered his head to plant wet kisses all over her stomach. “You haven’t had your moon blood yet, right?”

Sansa shook her head.

“Good.”

He was right. Although she might wish another child, now was not the best moment to make one.

Sansa grabbed the hem of her shift and arched her back to throw it somewhere it would not bother them. She asked herself why they had not slept naked. It would have been more practical, after all. And then she asked herself why on earth was she thinking about those things when her husband’s perfect plump lips had closed around her nipple, making her run her fingers through his hair has she pressed him against her chest, moaning and writhing under him.

“You are so beautiful, so perfect…” Jon hummed softly against her skin, setting her body aflame.

Gods, how would she live without him for so long? Gods… Not the gods, the gods had never done anything for her. Jon was her only god, his eyes, his jaw, his mouth, his shoulders, his chest, his stomach, his thighs, his arms, his courage, his gentleness, his wit, his cleverness, his selflessness a perfect reflection of stories of old northern heroes. He had told her once the Red Woman had said she hoped he was the “prince that was promised”, and just by looking at him she was certain it was true.

Although she wanted to had “to her”. He was the prince promised to Sansa and Sansa alone. He had promised himself freely to her, and that simple thought was enough for her heart to swell with pride and love and admiration, that a god could pledge his life to a broken mortal woman.

But she was not broken. She was whole. Whole, just as long as their hearts beat together. Just as long as their children played in the courtyard among wolves. Just as long as she loved him and he loved her in return.

“Jon…” she mumbled, her eyelids firmly shut again as his mouth moved to the other breast, paying it the same attention. “My Jon…”

“Your Jon, Sansa,” he assured her, his lips brushing sweetly on hers. “Your Jon.”

“Will you wait for me?” she asked him, her fingers hooking the waist of his breeches. “Will you, Jon?”

He bit his lip and gloriously threw his head back when she lowered his breeches and took her cock in her hands. It was so heavy and hot and hard she thought he might just spill himself on her hand. She guided him to her entrance, one of Jon’s hands coming to rest on her hip and the other gently brushing her hair out of her face as he rested his elbow on the mattress.

“I will, my love,” he vowed, a solemn kiss on her forehead as he furrowed his brow. “I’ve waited all my life already. I can wait a few moons more.”

Her heart almost broke at his words. It was unfair, so unfair that they were being torn apart.

But right now Sansa did not wish to think about it. She just wanted to feel his warm skin on hers, listen to the sweet sounds that his mouth made right next to her neck. She dug her heels on the small of Jon’s back, her free hand tangling in the small hairs at the back of his neck. With a strong snap of her hips, she finally took him inside of her, the low growl rumbling on Jon’s lips matching her strangled sob.

However, after only a few thrusts, Jon had grabbed her waist and flipped them over as she gave a small yelp of surprise. He laughed, his hands sliding to her hips as he bent his knees so he could meet her hips halfway. Sansa dug her fingers in his chest, trying to find some leverage as she slid up and down on his cock, raking his skin with her fingernails. Jon’s grip on her hips tightened and she felt her peak so, so close already as she felt a tiny drop of sweat run down her face, her neck and then between her breasts only for him to lean forward and lick it.

“Will you think of me as well?” she teased, her voice rougher than she had expected. “When you only have your own hand to pleasure yourself?”

He plunged into her faster and harder than before, leaving her in a panting, moaning mess.

“I will pretend it’s your pretty wet mouth or your pretty wet cunt every time.”

She blushed. She was yet to understand why she liked to say and like to hear the filthiest things and still felt embarrassed every time they spoke like this.

She tried to match Jon’s rhythm, the wet sounds of skin against skin filling their room.

Oh, she was so close, so close…

“Sansa,” he called. Or prayed. She was not sure anymore. “Sansa, please, I’m-”

He closed his eyes and let his head fall back on the pillow, is neck stretching in that way she was so familiar with as the muscles under her hand tightened and tightened until, with a loud groan, he was spilling himself deep inside of her.

She gave Jon a few heartbeats to recover at least some part of his judgment until she brought his hand to her nub, raising an eyebrow at him when he groaned in protest.

“I had not finished yet, Lord Snow,” she scowled, biting her lip and throwing her back against his raised knees as soon as he pressed his fingers to her and started to rub in small quick circles. “Don’t you know it is rude to leave your lady wife unsatisfied?”

“Did I ever leave my lady wanting?” he scoffed, though the half-smile forming on his lips told otherwise.

“Never,” she chanted, her walls fluttering around his cock, still inside her. “Never. Never. Never, Jon.”

Sansa fell to his chest, perfectly sated, completely exhausted. He had exhausted her and they had yet to leave their bed.

If she was not beaming with joy and the most handsome man in all the Seven Kingdoms was not laying naked in her bed, perhaps she could have cursed him. But for now she just decided not to think about the long day they both had ahead of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I just wanted them to be happy before they have to suffer.  
> Thank you so much for reading and leaving kudos and comments!


	16. Chapter 16

For the first time in gods knew how many moons the sun was shining shyly. If only the good weather remained throughout all their journey.

Or a terrible blizzard forced her to stay home.

Alys was shouting orders at pretty much anyone who cared to listen to her, both her hands on her hips as her swollen belly pointed proudly out. Careful with that box! No, no, that trunk cannot go there! You, yes, you there! Why are you not reading the horses? Jon and Tommard were just a few feet away, both with their arms crossed at their chests, speaking in a low voice as they too accessed the journey’s preparation before them. The young wolves, Robb, Rodrik and even little Benjen were rolling around in the soft snow, perfectly oblivious to the fuss around them, all the people sane enough to care about their behaviour too busy to bother to reprimand them.

All except for the two women standing straight like marble statues in the centre of the courtyard, holding hands in silence, both too afraid to break it and say the wrong thing.

Winterfell was her home. There had been a time, a short yet hideous time when it had not been, the walls filled with screams and blood and terror. That time had been left behind long ago. The castle had seen the birth and death of many generations of Starks and now that circle had been restored.

Sansa had done more than her duty. The land prospered once more. There were no empty bellies, no empty hearts. Their frontiers were as safe as they could possibly be with the Others lurking the coasts. And she had given Winterfell not one, but two heirs already. If she were to die on her journey there were two strong boys right next in line. Also, Jon was more than capable of ruling in her name.

“It’s still so… odd, I guess?” Arya sighed, her slender fingers gently stroking Sansa’s.

“Which part exactly?” Sansa asked, laughing.

She had decided not to feel sad. She was doing this for them, all of them. Robb, Benjen, Jon, Arya, Alys, Jocelyn, little Rodrik. The people of Winterfell, the Northmen. Bran. Sansa Stark of Winterfell was going to represent all of them before the queen and all the other lords and ladies of the Seven Kingdoms.

So she would lift her head high and not feel sad.

“A foreign queen on the Iron Throne? Three dragons flying around? The North, the Iron Islands, Dorne and the kingdom itself all controlled by women? Us holding hands?” Sansa suggested, smiling to her sister.

“No, not that. Though also that, I guess,” Arya said, frowning as she considered the thought. “That we survived so far. That you have done so well rebuilding all of this, you and Jon, even though last time I had seen you two you barely said good-morning to each other. That we both can talk to each other without arguing. And that I love two chubby, rosy-cheeked little boys more than anything on this world.”

Sansa felt the tears pooling in her eyes and loathed herself for all those years she had spent annoyed with Arya. They were family, they shared the same blood. Love each other could not have been so hard. She threw her arm around her sister’s shoulders and pressed Arya to her.

“They love you just as much, you know that,” Sansa said, her voice half broken.

She would not cry. She would not.

Arya half-giggled, half-sniffed.

“Look at them, they are half-wolves already! I never thought you would grow to raise your children like that, such a polite young lady you were!” Arya jested, wrapping her arm around her Sansa’s waist.

“I found out one is happier doing what one wishes and not what is expected of them.”

Arya nodded, as if she had understand exactly her meaning, and then they both felt silent, as if enjoying those last few moments together. It was funny, how sometimes they needed to scream at each other for the silliest of matters but whenever a solemn situation presented itself they always seemed to fall silent.

“You find our brother, Arya. Bring our Bran home,” Sansa whispered, her grip around Arya’s shoulders tightening.

“I give you my word,” Arya vowed, parting from her and taking Sansa’s hands in hers. “Now go say your goodbyes to Jon or you’ll regret it forever.

* * *

 

Jon had held her close, and had covered her face and her mouth with kisses in front of all the others in the courtyard.

“Come back to me, love,” he had begged in a low voice, his arms pressing her to his chest, his wet face buried in her hair. “Please, Sansa, come back to me.”

Her heart had tightened in her chest until she felt it had collapsed over itself. She had held him even closer, her hands roaming through his back, his neck, his hair so her fingertips would remember the feel of his body against hers.

“I will, Jon. I promise I will.”

“And you will send a raven as soon as you arrive there?” he had asked, cupping her face between his hands, his eyes pleading her to stay.

“I will send a raven at the end of every day, if needed be,” she had jested, with a half-smile.

That had not been her most convincing mask.

“I love you,” he had vowed, giving her one last kiss and helping her get on her horse. “Don’t let him hurt you. Don’t let them hurt or all will kill them all myself.”

She cleaned her eyes with the back of her hand, furiously squashing the stubborn tears that had decided to ignore her orders and fall all the same as soon as she had turned her back to the gates. To the castle. To her family and her home.

Yet, saying goodbye to Jon, although painful, had not been the worst part of it all.

The worst of it had been leaving her two boys behind. The ones she had carried in her belly for over nine moons each. The ones she had felt growing and moving inside her. The ones she had brought into this world amidst pain and blood. The ones she had fed herself, now to leave the smaller one to a milk-maid as her breasts went dry on their one.

It was so unfair, that she loved them so much, that they were both so perfect and kind and funny and brilliant in their one way, even though Benjen was still barely able to crawl. It was so unfair, to see Robb hiding his tears in his father’s cloak, for he was the heir to Winterfell, and the older brother, and he had to be strong and not cry for his mother. It was so unfair, how Benjen had cried his lungs out as soon as she had passed him to Jon’s arms again with his tiny hands still firmly grasping her braids.

That had broken her heart.

She was abandoning them, just like her lady mother had abandoned Bran and Rickon and a shiver had crawled up her back as she recalled how that episode in particular had ended.

This time was different, she told herself. The world was a different place, and Jon would make sure nothing bad would ever happen to them.

That was why she was leaving them behind. She would make sure their children grew up in a different world. One kinder and safer and fairer.

Her stomach was twisting again, and she knew it was not just because of the turmoil of emotions that had devastated her. Sansa breathe in and out slowly, trying to maintain the food in her belly.

At least she had been able to keep it from everyone, or she was sure Jon would not have agreed that Sansa travelled such a long distance on horseback. He would have most likely forbidden her from leaving.

It had for the best of them all, not telling him. Then, when she got back home with everything solved he could be angry at her all he wished. But he could not keep her from going.

She looked at the road ahead and saw Lemon running right in front of them, her tail low as if she too missed her cubs. Sansa gave one final sniff and straightened her back, already tired of feeling such sadness in her chest. She was Sansa Stark of Winterfell and she would arrive at Riverrun with her eyes dry and her chin raised.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry! I swear I had not intended for it to be so so so sad, I promise. But then somewhere along the way angst happened.  
> I will update this series as soon as possible as I already have many ideas about it (though uni is not giving me enough time and energy to focus on writing and I'm getting really mad at them). In the mean time I thought about writing a couple of one-shots, mostly for when I need this two being happy and not parted.  
> Anyway, thank you so much for all your kind comments, and for reading this above all things. It still amazes me that someone would be interested in this kind of stuff (not false modesty, I promise I'm being 100% honest because I read so many amazing fics here that I can only hope to reach a tenth of that sort of talent). Love you all and see you all on the next story! Thank you  
> PS: Am I the only one who's keeping their fingers crossed for S07 canon JonSa? By all the material we've got so far I'm starting to fear the worst (the worst being JonSa not being canon and not anything against Daenerys in particular).


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